


A Dark Lamp: Marrakech

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Multi, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happened like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark Lamp: Marrakech

**Author's Note:**

> Companion stories to _[A Lamp Amid the Darkness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1160379)_. These are works that just are absolutely necessary, but don't fit in well with that narrative (I mean, I could use dates, but I don't want to).

In the faint reach of the one remaining gas street lamp there was movement to his left - he snapped his head over to look - a gent in a ragged layer of grungy white shirts, suspenders, darkly stained trousers and fingerless gloves leaned against the damp wall. He lifted a pipe to his lips and sucked on it, the glow from the coal highlighting his mustachios and dead-eyed gaze. Sherlock dared not make a sound. He brought his hand up, pressed on finger to his lips - _shhh._ The man continued to stare at him, smoke puffing from the pipe and shrouding him even more until Sherlock could no longer make out his features under his hat. There were shouts and hobnailed boots pounding against wet cobblestones - Sherlock held his breath - men ran past the alley, cruel laughter lingering in their air behind them.

Sherlock did not wait for them to come back. He slipped out of the alley and ran cat-footed in the other direction. A mistake on his part, to come this way dressed as he was, knowing Kill'em Cowell was in the area. That had been the draw, of course. Nonetheless, once Blackie Morgan had spied him and raised the hunt with a whistle and giggle, Sherlock had known he had only a few moments to get away. Ducking into another close, Sherlock slowed and readjusted his clothing to look more presentable, then strode out into the street with all the confidence he could muster. Thieves and blackguards, whores and their get set sharp eyes on him as he walked, but soon enough he rejoined a higher class of person on the avenue, coming to and from the theatre, or dinner, or their club. He relaxed, fractionally, still walking swiftly until he turned down Baker Street. He had the key ready and stepped inside 221B, closing the door firmly behind himself only to fall back upon it a second later with closed eyes and a sigh of relief.

The hall smelled of pea soup and fresh bread, evidence of Mrs. Hudson's loyalty and the likelihood of a cold supper awaiting him upstairs. With a ghost of a smile directed towards the ground floor flat door, Sherlock divested himself of cane and coat and hat, then retired to his own flat for the evening. He was gratified to find a plate of biscuits on the table, another of cheese and a ripe pear, along with the tureen of soup covered with a knitted cozy, and a bowl of rolls with a covered butter plate.

Despite the shock of the evening, he fell on the food like a man starving. When he was done, there was little left on the plates save the core of the fruit, a rind of cheese, and a half of a split roll. Replete from his meal, he stumbled to his room to wash off the sweat and night fog.

Some half an hour later, his dinner finally sitting more comfortably in his stomach, wrapped in a clean nightdress and robe, slippers on his feet, Sherlock returned to the parlour, only to find Mycroft on the couch, reading _Lloyd's List_ at his leisure. Sherlock pursed his lips, annoyed at himself for not hearing Mycroft come in. He _had_ to come up with some method by which he would know if his brother was inside the flat. There had to be a way!

"Brother dear," said Mycroft, snapping the top half of the paper down in a way Sherlock found intensely irritating. "Glad to see you made it home safely."

"What do you want," Sherlock flung himself onto his chair with ill grace. 

Mycroft frowned, his expression sour. "I have it on good authority the Irish are - "

"Damn the Irish!" Sherlock crossed his legs and folded his arms across his belly. "What do they know? I've done my best by them, they have no warrant with me."

"Quite the contrary, brother mine. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I have it on good authority that James Moriarty has left for America."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. "America! Whatever for? They'll eat him alive over there."

"So one might think. But he's not going to join one of the gangs. Rather, his father has sent him there with the express purpose of gathering funds for the uprising to come. Guns and money, in short."

Yes, but how? Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips. Moriarty was too dangerous - even by the standards of the gangs, he was a loose cannon, primed to go off at the most inopportune moment. At least, that was what many in the know thought. Sherlock had studied Moriarty from afar - somewhat. He had had dealings with the lower ranks of Moriarty's organization, and a more villainous hive of scum and thievery he had yet to meet. Which was saying something, given London's criminal underclass. Moriarty had an intelligence rivaling his own. He was a spider, pulling silk this way and that. He could not be allowed free rein in America. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. "You want me to stop him."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Your resources would only be your wits."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Sherlock, I know. America, however is not London. The rules are different there, and you would be wise to take care."

"Have your information for me as soon as possible. I'll leave by week's end."

"As you will," said Mycroft, standing and brushing his clothing back into place, just so. He looked down at Sherlock with no small solemnity. "There have been threats, here, from people far more dangerous than the Irish. While Moriarty is not an immediate threat, the others are, as your escapade this evening has proven. Lie low, little brother. I cannot be everywhere for you."

Mycroft headed out of the flat, ignoring Sherlock's flippant hand-wave as he left. That, in itself, was more than enough to let Sherlock know how worried Mycroft was for him. A frisson of unease swept through him and he bounced to his feet with all intentions indulging in his seven percent solution. Halfway across the room he paused. His nerves were a-jangle, yet he did not desire cocaine. No, he sensed that would only make his anxiety worse. 

He drifted to the fireplace and stared into the coals. He would take the next fastest ship…he would have to get his affairs in order here first. Yes, he would start that in the morning, and then get his ticket. It would be a long journey and he was not at his best on the water. Preparation would be key, yes…he would lay in a supply of ginger syrup, to make sure he would make it through. And perhaps hashish, to ensure he could sleep. But the crossing would be long…perhaps as long as six weeks if the weather was poor…he would have to bring plenty of paper, he would work on another monograph. He would need ink, and, and, and yes _G-d_ he would be in America and it would be fine, it would all be fine.


End file.
